


I'm Not Trapped Here With You

by Hambone



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Creepy Undertones, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Forced Marriage, M/M, Mentioned violence, Public Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 10:56:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3567095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whirl is awarded a bride for all his hard work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Trapped Here With You

**Author's Note:**

> Commission for an anonymous person on my tumblr. Enjoy!

“Exemplary performance,” he said, throwing his head back and puffing out his already prominent chest, “that’s what they called it!”

Outback was nonplussed, pushing Whirl’s claw away from his face as he tried to enjoy his own lunch in peace.

“Seems like they’ll give anyone a prize if they suck up enough.”

Whirl craned his neck down to give Outback his signature blank stare.

“Clearly you’re worse of a sucker than I am then!”

“Slaghead.”

“Jealous!”

Throwing his head back and downed his own ration through an access port in his throat. One of the other guardsmen laughed.

“You’re not getting a promotion or something,” Outback continued, “They’re giving you a toy so you’ll keep playin’ good.”

Sideswipe, a few tables over but nosy enough to have heard every word, laughed, an ugly, teasing guffaw.

“If they’ll give someone as ugly as motor-face over there a pretty little doll to frag maybe we all should start beating up civilians for extra dirt.”

“That’s the attitude!” cried Whirl, knocking what was left of Outback’s drink into his lap as he stood up abruptly, “slag ‘em all!”

A few people clapped and laughed, hollering, and Sunstreaker, beside his brother who whooped loudly, sneered in disgust into his drink. That was a good sign, to Whirl anyways. Sunstreaker was probably the easiest mech this side of the galaxy to piss off but something about it magically retained that wonderful first-time satisfaction every new day he accomplished it. The lunchroom guards were looking a little shifty as a crowd of overpowered brawlers started cheering, but they probably just wanted to join in too.

After all, everybody hated the Senate.

* * *

 

“You know why you’ve been called here?”

The secretary could have at least attempted to not look disgusted by him. Whirl felt a flicker of the usual anger inside him, thinking, just briefly, on how easily his thin neck would snap beneath his claw tips, but suppressed it with the memory of what was to come.

“The big guys are givin’ me a chew toy.”

A couple of guards by the door laughed but straightened up when the secretary gave them a tired look.

“You are being awarded for your exemplary performance.”

“Ain’t that what I said?”

The secretary put a hand over his forehead and sighed.

“Take a seat. You’ll be called in when they’re ready.”

The lobby was clearly designed for higher class mechs, not someone as built as he was, and the chairs were small and a little hard to fit in properly with his kibble jabbing everywhere. On top of that his secondary knees kept banging into the seat edge, which at first annoyed him but then pleased him when he realized it was annoying everybody else. Kicking his legs about with juvenile glee, the wait hardly seemed to take ten kliks.

Probably because it didn’t – only a moment in and the secretary was buzzing the office in a low whisper.

He was admitted into a small and overcrowded room, shelves stocked with colorful data pads and cylinders seeming to advance from every wall while glass baubles and silvery trinkets covered every other available surface, hanging from the window sill to catch the light of the morning sun. The desk at the back end of the room felt almost like overkill despite being the focus of the environment, at least in theory, the small autocrat stuffed behind it like a wrench not quite fitting in its drawer.

“Whirl of Lower Iacon?”

“That’s me.”

Not even giving his cocky nod the time of day, the desk jockey merely adjusted the file in his hands, reading slowly.

“Alright, we’re going to need your personal data input signature here,” he scrolled down a bit, “and here.”

“Alright alright,” Whirl hastily jacked in to the console and scrawled down his information, annoyed, “where’s the good stuff?”

“You will receive your legal partner when the work is correctly filed.”

“And when will that be?”

He rubbed his claws together, expecting to hear the worst but still excited. The buearocrat opened his mouth but then stopped as something on his console pinged.

“Now. Please go back into the waiting room.”

“For slag’s sake do I have to do this every five nano-kliks or can I actually just go ahead and-“

Whatever else he was going to say, foul mouth already primed, froze as he saw the mechs waiting for him back outside. It was immediately apparent who was who; two big mechs with chunk alt mode kibble and one small sleek little guy with absolutely nothing to show for his function. A nobody. Exactly the kind of useless metal they’d be giving out as peace keeping prizes. And what metal he was.

“So,” Whirl sauntered up and leaned against the wall, pushing out his chest’s best asset in clear machismic bravado, “this your first time, eyebrows?”

The smaller mech adjusted his optical enhancement clip, shuffling forward as prompted by one of his handlers. Whirl could hear his joints creak with age or perhaps just ill maintenance. Trust the Senate to cheap out on their gifts. _Ah well,_ he thought, watching the little mech fidget, _at least he’s cute._

“If you mean my first time getting bonded ceremonially then the answer is yes.”

“Nice.”

He leaned in close, reading the energy signature quivering about his prey. The mech moved back a bit in shock, and probably fear, but was stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder. The guardsman looked boredly at Whirl and reset his vocalizer to get attention.

“Signature’s gone through. You two are officially bonded. Enjoy your happy function.”

Whirl put his arm around the mech’s back.

“Don’t gotta tell me twice.”

* * *

 

Rung, the little guy, was a fidgiter. Whirl noticed this pretty fast; he had been right about his new bride having no functional transformation and he had to give him a ride back to his apartment. He was not nearly small enough to fit in Whirl’s cockpit so they’d ended up in an awkward arrangement with Rung clinging to his landing gear while he sped off. He was almost tempted to spook him but against his more playful judgements had decided against it, mostly because he was eager to try him out and any unintended accidents that such a game could cause would ruin the mood.

Well, a little.

He could feel the twisting of Rung’s finger against his plating, even in the air, the way he flexed with nerves. Having not had hands for so long, something about it relaxed Whirl, and excited him, already anxious to see how those little digits would feel around his spike, his guns, perhaps just coiling around the hinges of his claws.

“Eyebrows, Eyebrows, Eyebrows,” he said, circling his bride in the darkness of his flat, “what a weird aug for someone like you.”

Fidget, fidget. He watched Rung’s fingers twist around one another.

“They are not an ‘aug’, as you suggest. I was created with them. They were of the style in my time.”

“You ain’t offline yet. I think it’s still technically ‘your time’, eh?”

Rung flinched a bit as Whirl jerked forward, looking him over a little too closely for comfort. Of course, this functionless bot must know they would be getting a lot closer soon. Very soon.

“So, you got any other weird bits? Any other things from your old timey days?”

“I’m not sure to what you are exactly referring but most of my frame still uses its original parts. I haven’t been in combat so they don’t get damaged often, just a bit worn.”

He seemed to catch himself babbling and stopped, straightening a bit. Whirl preened a bit at the obvious effect he was having. Big sharp warrior flustering the little mechs, always a fun game. He wondered if his bride was getting wet just from being near him. He should be; Whirl was prime real estate. Plus who knew what kinds of weird programming they put in these guys before shipping them off to their prize winners. Maybe all that fidgeting was to cover up the steady pinging of his slowly heating frame-

Whirl laughed out loud, clearly starling his small companion again, and then hopped backwards in an ill coordinated leap onto his berth, leaning back a bit to better expose his midriff and patting his lap with a claw.

“Come’ere.”

Rung looked taken aback.

“Whirl, is it? I think perhaps we should discuss our arrangement more before we take,” he swallowed, “further steps?”

Whirl threw his head back and chortled.

“Arrangement? C’mon four-optics, like you don’t know what’s going on here.”

Rung furrowed those bizarrely endearing brows in consternation, perhaps insulted, but before he could speak again Whirl continued.

“You got deemed useless by basically everyone. I got deemed special because I punch stuff good. You’re a nobody, I’m a kinda-somebody, and now you’re mine. Besides,” he waggled his hips a bit, “don’t tell me you aren’t into this.”

There was a war on Rung’s face as he listened. Whirl almost expected, almost wanted, him to put up a fight. However, he did not. After a klik of one sidedly tense silence Rung approached the berth and sat, rather awkwardly, on one of Whirl’s thickly shielded thighs. His cockpit made the move a little difficult but he managed, Whirl shifting slightly to the side to accommodate since he really wanted the end result more than the struggle. Rung had a rather hard and flat backside but it was nice and small and warm on his leg and he really cared more about the way the mech cast his gaze downwards in embarrassment when Whirl chuffed happily and put a claw around his shoulders.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“No, not physically,” Rung said, voice lowering an octave, “but you must understand that this is – demoralizing for me, in a way. To be giving out like this.”

Whirl looked at him.

“I haven’t got any morals to begin with, eyebrows, and I’m not starting now.”

Rung reset his vocalizer.

“That’s not what I meant.”

This was beginning to frustrate Whirl more than it should have. He didn’t like being questioned, especially not by someone smaller and weaker than him, someone who didn’t have the power to lock him up with a rude word if he stepped out of line.

“Hey,” he snapped, pushing his face right up to Rungs, “this is the way things are. I won you. I _deserve_ you. You are mine.”

Rung’s mouth screwed shut in a thin line. He looked so disapproving, as if he had the right to be. Whirl growled and pushed him to the floor, not hard enough to bowl him over but holding him down between his legs easily. Rung jumped, glasses askew, trying to pull away but Whirl kept him fast in place.

“You don’ wanna touch me? Fine. I get it, eyebrows, whatever, but don’t you fragging patronize me.”

Trying to adjust his glasses, Rung sputtered a bit, more of that nice, dependable fear becoming clear on his features again.

“I-I wasn’t trying to patronize you,” he stuttered, “I just think that you should think more about this, I mean, to be clear, we are going to be living together for a very long time,” he stopped, lips flapping, as Whirl slip apart his crotch plate and extended his partially stiffened spike.

“Quit talking,” he snapped, “I didn’t win you for talking.”

Rung closed his mouth slowly. Even through his lenses Whirl could see the way his optics seemed to soften in some inexplicable way. It meant nothing to Whirl, though, as he could not understand it, so instead of speaking again he merely jerked his hips again, making his limp spike bob, and pulled his bride closer.

* * *

 

“So what’s it like?”

“What’s what like.”

Whirl was mocking him and Sideswipe cuffed him on the shoulder.

“Your new juxy, moron. Was he _good?_ ”

“Is he pretty?” Runamuck elbowed his twin hard as he jeered, making eyelashes for himself with his fingers, and Runabout responded with equal fervor. Whirl liked them. They weren’t much for small talk and were great for pounding criminals, exactly his favorite kind of fun.

He braced his claws on the table and leaned in, a gesture that was stupid in its grandness but made everyone listen as desired. The all seemed to teeter towards him, as though his lowered voice were a magnet.

“He’s cute alright. Real cute. Tiny little thing, fast hands. He’s got a mouth like me, only literally he has a mouth, and he doesn’t curse and slag, just talks about the way of the worlds and junk.”

“So they gave you a nag machine.”

Outback was pleased by the laughs that got, and that made Whirl doubly glad to hit him across the back of his helm.

“He’s not a nagger, I said, he’s a _talker_. You know those motor mouths are good with ‘em too.

The crowd muttered excitedly amongst themselves.

“What about his valve?”

 “What about it?”

“Well, I mean, is he loose?”

He turned to face them all.

“What the hell are you gettin’ at?”

“Well, you know, I heard they give out hookers.”

Whirl considered Rung, for a moment, back in his apartment doing whatever he did when he was alone. His thin, disapproving nose dipped in some novel, eyebrows furrowed as he tried to reach something on a high shelf, skinny fingers clicking with age as he straightened the berth pad. It was hard to imagine he had ever been _anything_ but old.

“He’s better than that,” said Whirl finally, “but why am I tellin’ you? You wanna see?”

* * *

 

The crowd parted for them as if they were royalty. Whirl nudged at Rung to keep him moving like livestock in the pen. Jittery with the pleasure of respect and yet finding himself almost violently moved by their stares, he held his helm high. Rung gripped his claws with quiet intensity.

“These are my work buddies,” said Whirl, close in his receptor like a secret, “slaggers, every one. I’m not lettin’ them touch you though, nah, I’ve got you.”

Rung looked at him with an unreadable expression. Whirl didn’t like that. It prevented him from being wholly proud. He wanted to be proud.

“Kinda old, innit?”

Whirl didn’t recognize the voice but was immediately happy for the distraction, lifting his head as he rattled his plating out from his protoform, bright and dangerous plumage.

“Quality is the word you’re looking for I think.”

He actually felt Rung stiffen at that, not in fear it seemed but almost a righteous anger.

“Age brings experience, I’ve always thought.”

None of them had really expected Whirl’s consort to speak, so silence reigned for a klik, all optics suddenly on the smaller bot’s face. Rung did not even flinch, though his hands tightened around what was left of Whirl’s. There was the pride. Whirl widened his stance.

“That’s right, fraggers.”

The crowd burst into noise again.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nice!”

“What did you promise us, huh?”

Whirl basked. By his side, Rung did nothing at all, amazingly sturdy despite being a mouse among cats.

“We did promise you a show, didn’t we?”

He nudged Rung.

“Didn’t we?”

Rung did twitch then, turning to give him a deep stare through his glasses. Whirl liked that small shock of fear, that knowing yet unresisting glimpse of his inner turmoil. For a moment Whirl wondered if he’d run. That would be fruitless, of course, especially in this environment, and Rung was his, belonged to him. He was used to running though, fear, chase. It made him almost wish Rung would, then, considering the way it would feel. But he didn’t. He was strong and silent and that stirred something different in him.

It was always that way when he lost control. He’d been planning on showing Rung off anyways, showing everyone how nice he was, like a toy, but he pushed Rung up against the mess hall table and everyone cheered and he knew it was going further than that. Rung gasped something he didn’t quite hear but proved no real threat, letting himself be lifted awkwardly, pressed on his chest against the dull metal.

“Whirl,” he said, soft and calm, “don’t do this,” but Whirl had already made up his mind.

“Don’t say that,” he almost growled, head right beside Rung’s, neck extended down even as his cockpit made the hunch hard, “don’t say things like that. You like this. This is what you want.”

He ground up against Rung’s aft and listened to the hooting.

“What you’re here for. C’mon.”

Despite the solemn face Rung pulled, his hips bounced up a fraction, lips parting for just a nano-klik. Was it real, or some programmed response courtesy of the Senate? Whirl pushed hard against him, king of the room as the other mechs waved them on, and felt heat explode in his gut.

He pushed so hard into Rung that the smaller mech bounced against the table, gasping in almost pain. Whirl’s equipment pressed hard against his panels, suddenly swollen and ready. He could smell Rung too, not in the way he used to smell, when he had a face, but that tasting of the air he’d learned since, the thick waft of chemical mixtures slowly turning over in his brain until he recognized arousal and fear and anger and sex.  He thrust against him again and Rung’s panel slipped open in compliance.

The room went wild.

“You like that, huh?” to the rest of the room, “you want a show then?”

It didn’t matter if their answer was positive or not, though it overwhelmingly was. Rung trembled then, a real, unmitigated tremble, and Whirl pushed open his codpiece and let his spike spring free. He felt almost rabid, an animal in his pack, a not unfamiliar feeling, one he welcomed. This was normal, secure, power. This was what he was.

“t-there are too many people,” Rung stated, then stopped, schooling himself through a shudder as Whirl’s spike trailed down the cleft of his thin valve, not quite wet but not for lack of trying, “Whirl, this isn’t-!”

“Isn’t what, eyebrows?”

Whirl frotted against him harder, clamping his claws through the thin metal of the table to hold Rung’s wrists steady.

“Isn’t safe? Isn’t normal? Isn’t what your Senate polishers taught you it’d be?”

He grunted loudly.

“That’s on them. You’re mine now.”

Rung hummed a high note, almost a moan.

“Mine.”

“Alright,” said Rung, barely audible, “if that’s what you want.”

_“Mine.”_

He pushed a little too hard, cockpit catching Rung’s shoulder in a way that was panful to them both and slammed Rung into the table. He pulled back and tried to thrust inside, twice, missing the first time from excitement and the way his own prefluid was making him slippery. Rung gasped at the near miss and then jerked hard when they connected, forgetting himself in a moment and trying to bite his knuckle despite it being trapped still. Whirl hadn’t gone hard with him before, not like this, and the stress was making him tighter than ever despite his inner mantras. He barely got the head in before they had to stop, were forced to by the painful ripple between them both, thank Primus for Whirl’s small amount of lingering restraint.

“Slaggit that’s too good.”

It wasn’t Whirl who had said it, some nameless fighter in the crowd, but he was right. Even with the low level of lubrication Rung’s old systems produced Whirl was slick enough for them both and Rung was hot in the way that made him mad with want beneath him. Dizzy from overstimulation, Whirl pumped his hips in small circular motions, loosening Rung up as much as he could and getting inch after inch closer to being inside fully. His bride was near silent, creaking and shuddering, but his fingers danced along the table. Such long, dexterous fingers, so small next to Whirl’s useless claws.

He shoved, hard.

Rung arched up as much as he could with a cry, legs gone ridged as Whirl slammed in as deep as he fit, almost to the base but not quite, never quite perfect. Whirl felt his own spike throb, soft rubber flexing around him like a loving hand, firm and careful, calipers bent wide.

“That’s the stuff!” he shouted to no one, “that’s good, you’re good, baby, you’re good. Always been good. Just like I said!”

The room didn’t acknowledge, optics lower, drinks in hand. They didn’t move closer or further away, not silent but certainly not coherent, a mob.

“they all want you,” he puffed, pulling out in a not-exactly-slow drag, feeling the ribs on the underside of his spike cling deliciously to Rung’s slowly swelling nerve nubs, “look at that. They do, every single one of ‘em, those slagged up grease wastes, but you’re mine. I deserved you, I won you.”

Rung panted wetly, glasses fogging.

“I _won_ you.”

He snapped his hips back inside and this time they both gasped, as much as they individually could, Whirl throwing his head back in a bright flash of light as his optic fritzed.

“Scrap!”

His blades flexed outward, reaching up to the ceiling as he began erratically pounding Rung into the desk. Legs splayed, knees knocking the table at awkward angles, it was painful and exhilarating, the moist cling of Rung’s valve blooming around him more and more with each thrust. He had never been much good with his EM field before and now it was bluntly knocking into Rung’s, tugging and pulling in the shivering spikes to try and meld. They wouldn’t though, Rung always giving and sweet but sharp as a tack underneath it all, sharp and proud despite his lowly position.

“w-Whirl,” he pushed back, hips gliding in strong, calculated motions, not exactly natural but perfectly timed. Skilled. Whirl wasn’t sure if everyone else could tell, if they could see how good his bride was, but he felt it and he knew it and he preened in the light of it, thrusting harder, deeper. Whirl was experienced but clumsy, rough and too eager, his plating made dull from battle and punishment, unable to fully understand the reactionary pulses and pings of his partner, but he tried. His hips ground into Rung’s so hard they drew sparks and he tried.

“I-I’m gonna fill you up right,” he said, neck sloping low again, vocalizer scratchy and high, “gonna make you so heavy and full, yeah? Spark you up.”

“That’s-!”

“Spark you up good, yeah.”

Rung opened his mouth again but nothing came out. Whirl shook and banged them both down against the table, hard.

“do it!” someone shouted, and they were at the completely wrong angle for it and wrong moment for it and honestly Whirl couldn't have handled it if he had but he nodded anyways and clenched his claws o tightly into the metal that he had to pull one out and scratch at nothing to keep from pinching Rung’s hand off. He was so hot inside, both himself and Rung, a thick and heavy heat that flowed like the slow movement of a tongue through his belly and across his spike. He did not often regret the loss of his lips, among all the parts he had lost over the cycles; the optics, two, the fingers, ten, the high cheeks and the soft brow and the look of apathetic normalcy in the faces of others when they saw him, but the lips, now, he wanted more than ever.

Arching within his grasp, joints creaking above the crowd’s roar, Rung rippled around him and Whirl came. It was almost pathetic in its violence, his hips losing any semblance of balanced pattern and slipping into sporadic shaking, emptying himself with a harsh cough of static sound. Rung gasped and his fingers flexed, open, closed, pushed until the knuckles squealed loud and high. Transfluid spread him inside and poured out as Whirl jerked away at the last moment, the final jet of fluid painting down his inner thigh and calf. Rung didn’t move, trembling but solid. Whirl’s knees threatened to give out.

“Nice one!” Sideswipe slapped his shoulder before he was really ready to stand tall and he shrugged him off aggressively.

“You weren’t fraggin’ kidding!”

“I don’t have to prove scrap to you,” said Whirl, fans blasting, “I just like it.”

Rung’s fingers curled into the groves Whirl’s claws had left, tracing them with small thought.

* * *

 

In Whirl’s low apartment, Rung sat, watching the larger mech in recharge. His hands rested across Whirl’s bosom, the way he had been instructed to set them before Whirl had slid into slumber, but he kept them there, feeling the almost too faint pulse of his spark inside. The room around them was smaller and dirtier than anything Rung had been forced to deal with before, but he found it less repulsive than interesting, a symptom of sickness rather than cause. Whirl couldn’t clean much the way he was even if he had wanted to.

He had seen Whirl’s strength and was in appropriate regard for it, but he felt no fear when the sleeping mech growled and turned, still under the influence of his dreams, claws tearing tiny triangles into the already pocked berth pad.

From where he sat, Whirl seemed so weak. Rung almost smiled.


End file.
